This Bridge To Cross
by Oldach's Dream
Summary: A House and Wilson get together fic. Takes place right after Airborne. Revelations lead to drinking, more revelations and change. Some life lessons thrown in for fun. Slash.


By: Oldach's Dream

Disclaimer: House is cracking jokes in the corner of my room. Wilson is cooking me dinner. Cuddy and Cameron are having a pillow fight for the entertainment purposes of a horny guy friend of mine. Foreman is stealing me a '67 Chevy Impala and Chase is... Well... Let's just say that one's not Fox approved.

A/N: A fairly long one-shot on how House and Wilson might get together. I've never done this before - I usually stick to friendship or established relationships - so I'd love to hear your thoughts on it.

This Bridge To Cross

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**Life Lesson Number One:**

_When you choose to open everything you are and everything you could be to the possibility of something new and deadly frightening, you better be damn sure someone's there to catch you when you fall. _

_Because you will. _

-------

Holding the small scrap of paper in his hand, James Wilson didn't understand why he suddenly felt so very alone. He was in-tune with his emotions, he was functional and at least mostly well adjusted by the standards society draped across them all in brimming cups of Dr. Phil and Oprah flavored television wine glasses.

He knew how to identify his emotions. He also knew that even if he gave this one it's very own nametag and seat at his poker game, he wouldn't be able to explain away the _why. _

He was lonely. There was an ulcer-like knot in the pit of his stomach that he hadn't felt since his last divorce had gone through and an emptiness that usually only accompanied the loss of a favorite patient.

This too, he was at a loss with, because he had just saved a patient. Found out an old woman that he'd grown fond of _didn't _have breast cancer. Usually that news had him soaring high for at least a day, but not tonight.

He briefly considered the possibility of disappointment. Not that his patient had ended up okay, but that he hadn't been the one to figure out the real reason as to why.

Chase was a good doctor, but he was nearly a decade younger than the Oncologist, he should not have the experience necessary to pull an explanation like that out of the air. He wasn't House.

Though logic told him that working for such a brilliant man for so many years should have taken their toll, and he couldn't be angry at that. Only he was. He was resentful and just a tad bit pissed.

That, while healthy to acknowledge, accept and move past - those three still had much to learn from their mentor, he assured himself, and their time with House wasn't even close to complete - still didn't explain away the lonely. The empty.

A knock on his office door made his heart jump illogically. "Yeah?" He called, retaining all his calm and collectedness, letting the piece of paper with Robin's number on it flutter to the top of his desk.

An attractive young woman with startlingly black hair sleeked back into a professional bun stuck her head into his office, looking nervous. "Dr. Wilson?"

He nodded and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. That was, after all, plastered on his door.

"I'm Bella." She said. "Dr. Cuddy's assistant."

Confused, he narrowed his eyes.

"There's a man calling from Stern and Bender who claims he had an appointment for a conference call with Dr. Cuddy tonight," she waved her hands nervously in front of her then started plucking at the hem of her business jacket. "Only she's not here and no one seems to now how to contact her. You're the only department head still here and I was wondering..." she trailed off, as if realizing the ridiculousness of her own request.

James just frowned. "She went to a lecture with House." He said. "Their flight should have landed a while ago."

"She's not here." The woman said again.

James sighed, rubbing his eyes, feeling distinctly put-upon. "Reschedule the call." He said, and when Cuddy's assistant - or secretary, as House referred to them as - went to protest, he added, "Say there's a patient emergency. I'll try to contact Cuddy."

He went back to his phone, and with that, the young woman considered herself dismissed and shut the door quietly behind her.

He wasn't entirely sure why, but when he went to dial Cuddy's cell number, his fingers tapped out House's instead. Not bothering to question it, he waited patiently three rings, four rings, five rings, then-

"What?" Came the inarguably disgruntled tone.

"Hi," he greeted, in a way announcing his presence, trying to see if his friend had checked his caller ID before snapping so viciously into the receiver.

"Wilson," House's tone calmed considerably from his first word to his second, yet the younger man still found himself a little apprehensive.

"Where are you?" He faked casual.

"Airport." Came the grunt, still displeased, but in an all-around fashion that Wilson was used to.

"Still?" He asked rhetorically. "Flight delayed?"

"No," House sighed and the other doctor could close his eyes and see the long fingers on Greg's left hand working their way over his face. "The airport _here. _They're not letting us leave."

"What? Why?"

"I got pissed and made a bomb threat." Came the sardonic reply. James rolled his eyes.

"Is Cuddy there?"

"Somewhere," House said easily, probably letting his head fall back onto whatever chair he was sitting in and closing his eyes. "People really get chatty when there's a mass outbreak of an infectious disease on an airplane."

His eyes widened without his consent and his voice was almost comically choked when he finally managed words. "What..." Okay, well, _word_.

"What?" Greg echoed. "They get chatty. And official. It sucks."

"Are you..." he wasn't entirely sure what he wanted to ask. _Are you okay? Are you in trouble? Are you high? _All seemed appropriate at the moment.

"It's a long story." He answered the unfinished question. "One that would have been fun to share _three hours ago_."

The last bit was shouted more than it was ranted, and Wilson had the distinct feeling that his friend wasn't talking to him any longer.

His suspicions were confirmed a few moments later when his boss's voice piped up in the background of the call.

"We can leave now, House." Cuddy sounded just as worn out and pissed off as House did, if not more so. "Who are you talking to?"

"Wilson." House answered, then there was some shuffling sounds, and a few beats of silence, before-

"Wilson?" Cuddy's tone was the same up close as it had been in the background.

"Hey," he said easily, and quickly filled her in on her assistant's message.

"Crap." She muttered, sounding angry again.

"What?" House could be heard in the background either ranting to himself or arguing with someone.

"Nothing," Cuddy muttered to him, mouth obviously away from the cell phone. "Put your cane down, you're scaring people."

"People are idiots." Came the familiar reply, even missing a few syllables do to static and distance, Wilson could easily fill in the words and their deliverance.

"We're leaving now." Cuddy seemed to be shouting. Trying to placate Greg or an angry security guard, he wasn't entirely sure.

"I'm sorry, James," she spoke into the mouthpiece again; the use of his first name alone was odd enough to invoke apprehension, if not outright fear. "We'll be home soon."

There were a few more muffled words he couldn't make out on the other end of the line before it went dead and James Wilson found himself staring at the phone in his hand with something akin to awe.

He wasn't a dense man by any means, anyone who knew the boy wonder Oncologist could tell you that. He was in-tune with his feelings and adapt at picking up on clues and morphing them into puzzle pieces.

He wasn't as good at this as, say, Greg House, but he certainly wasn't clueless. He'd felt lonely and abandoned before his phone call to his best friend, he'd been annoyed with Cuddy's minion and irritated at _Chase _of all people, for successfully doing his job.

He was worried now about whatever it was that seemed to have happened on Cuddy and House's long flight and he was still staring at the phone receiver dangling listlessly from his left hand.

He'd felt fine when he'd been talking to House. He'd felt not alone and comforted in an offbeat kind of way. He'd been-

The shrill beeping on the other end of the line where his new anomaly had been discovered a few minutes previously informed him that it was time to come out of his daze and lower the phone back onto its base.

Doing so, he muttered to himself, God, and any other entity that may or may not listen and be involved in the workings of everyday life;

"Ah, crap."

-------

**Life Lesson Number Two:**

_Relationships are complicated anomalies that often can't be categorized and neatly referenced for later speculation. Opening up your heart to another human being - completely and without reservations - can only happen, maximally, a handful of times throughout the course of one's life._

_More often than not, this happens without the given party's consent. _

-------

He was more than a little drunk, but not quite up to the _full _marker on the completely smashed gage. Which was good, as far as James Wilson was concerned, because completely smashed was a bad place to be. Despite all the High School students that would tell you otherwise.

"Chase figured it out?" House too, was inebriated to comical levels.

"That's what I said." James reiterated, pouring himself another glass of scotch from the mostly empty bottle sitting innocently on his friend's coffee table, but only taking a small sip.

Greg was at least three glasses ahead of him, but their drunken levels were bordering on equal - James might even be a bit in the lead. Stacy was crazy when she'd called House a lightweight.

"Damn," the older man laughed. "That's almost impressive."

"You say that you're shocked the kid's smart." James felt the world tilt a little as he leaned back against the couch, but ignored it, used to the sensation, and even taking some pleasure in feeling it without the side helping of guilt.

"Kid?" House questioned, splashing some liquid onto his jeans as he moved his arm to make a gesture. James' vision zeroed in on the wetness now seeping its way through the material on Greg's upper left thigh. The spot grew bigger then stopped, reaching its capacity and letting go.

It would probably stain by morning, James mused, eyes going out of focus. He would notice it in the same spot the next time his friend wore those pants, for Greg wouldn't discard the article of clothing just because of the small imperfection. No, this renowned Diagnostician only abandoned things that he had no hope of salvaging.

A dark spot on an otherwise flawless article of clothing could metaphorically sum up so much of who House was, how he lived his life, even how he viewed others. Defects and glitches, stains and human errors, damage - they just made things interesting. Worth keeping around.

"...seven years."

"What?" James found himself at a loss; Greg's words had floated past him like a soothing melody playing out as background noise. He shifted his eyes away from the wet spot on his friend's thigh, feeling as though a decade or so had passed since he'd told him about Chase solving the case.

"Dude," Greg slurred. "You are so, so drunk." And he laughed.

"So are you." He pouted, then paused. "What were we talking about?"

"You being jealous of my favorite duckling." House said, and swallowed half the Scotch he had so his glass was no longer overflowing. He still hadn't seemed to notice the bit he'd gotten on his pants.

"Favorite?" Was what his mind decided to take away from that.

He waved a dismissive hand. "You know what I mean."

"You ever tell Chase why you hired him?" James inquired, taking another small sip of his own drink, trying to focus his attention again. Greg still smelled like airport, despite having jumped into the shower about a millisecond after they'd arrived home.

Greg nodded and glanced to his TV, where the L-Word was playing on mute. "I told him his daddy made a phone call."

James snorted, actually snorted, and Greg raised an eyebrow in his direction at the sound. "Guess you never told him you got that call two days _after _you hired him."

"He didn't need to know that." Greg dismissed. "Better he thinks he got the job because his daddy's rich and famous, then because I thought he had pretty hair."

"You think Cameron has pretty hair." The younger man reminded. "Chase has a nice ass."

"So does Cameron." He defended, and there were a few beats of silence that allowed the awkwardness to ripple through and take hold of them both.

"Damn," Greg muttered, setting his drink down on the coffee table and rubbing his eyes. "I think it might be time for coffee."

The Oncologist nodded his agreement, thoroughly creped out by the turn in their bantering. Yet as Greg steadied himself on the arm of his sofa and started to hobble away to get the beverage brewing, his alcohol-clouded thought process couldn't keep from coming to its natural conclusion.

"You have a nice ass too." He called, and Greg stopped. _Whoops_.

"Well, you do." He went on, not being able to stop the rambling. "Of course so does Cuddy. I think everyone we work with has a pretty hot ass."'

"Including you?" Greg's words were said in the direction of the kitchen, which he was still facing, but they were solid and sure.

"I have prettier hair." He said glibly.

Greg didn't move for several long seconds, and James had the distinct urge to study the look on his face, to get some clue as to what was happening in that never-ceasing, intertwining, muddled mess of connections he called a thought process. But he didn't bother turning around, though, because he knew those deep blue eyes weren't angled in his direction.

When the older man finally did move, taking a few of his cane-less, hobbling steps into the kitchen, James heard him mumble something along the lines of, "...so, so drunk."

Drowning the rest of his Scotch, the Oncologist found that his own thoughts were hard to grab hold of and keep in front of him. He wanted to be contemplative; he wanted to diagnose - for lack of a better term - the clenching in his gut and his fluttering heart rate.

He wanted to set up an equation where A plus B equaled C minus B. Where A equaled the undeniable things he was feeling for his best friend right now - had been feeling for a long while, and had just discovered and identified tonight. And B equaled action and C equaled consequence.

He wanted to be sober enough to realize that the risk of C should automatically make the whole equation obsolete. He wanted to go back to ignoring it, as he'd apparently been doing subconsciously for quite some time now. Only you can't always get what you want, and sometimes you have to try to get what you need. That was Cuddy and House's ongoing philosophy, and he decided it was time to embrace it.

He knew what he needed.

His steps were so off-center that he may as well have been limping too. The kitchen sloshed in and out of focus, the image of Greg standing, grasping the counter with both hands, swam in front of him.

"What?" The older man griped, and James found it somewhat odd that he still sounded normal. Didn't he realize what was about to happen? He'd already decided and that, he drunkenly deduced, should have been clue enough for Greg. "You think I can't make coffee?"

"I know you can make coffee." The words came out absently, and he figured only a disconnected, objective part of his brain had decided he'd needed to answer at all.

"Then what..." Greg let the word trail off as James moved closer. He was facing away from the counter and hadn't yet moved his hands.

"I'm gonna do something now." He explained logically. Greg liked logic.

He was as close as he could be without physically touching, he could see how bright and wide his best friend's eyes were, how perplexed and almost... Understanding.

That was all the younger man had a chance to take in, before he closed the remaining distance between them. He smelled airport and scotch and pepperoni and cheep aftershave all blended together into a scent that was uniquely its own. And then he was kissing Greg House.

It wasn't soft and gentle, but it wasn't needy and desperate, either. It just was. As bold as a statement, a declaration of attraction; yet as soft as deeply bottled need and hope. It was a question, a plea, a fact and a want all rolled into one.

The kiss lasted only a few moments, and James just barley got to feel his friend respond to it before it ended.

"What was that?" Greg's voice was husky, deep with so many things, that James could never hope to pick them all apart.

"I kissed you." He said bluntly. And instead of backing down, stepping away, rubbing his neck and spewing apologies and explanations like his non-inebriated self might, he just raised his arms and placed his hands on the kitchen counter next to Greg's, locking him in.

"Why?" Came that ambiguous voice again, blue eyes turned away.

"Because you didn't want to push this until it broke." He recalled something his friend had said a while ago. "And I think this is why."

"You're drunk." He said harshly, and James had to force himself to not psychically recoil.

"So are you."

Greg's eyes finally met his, and it seemed to James as if those three words had somehow unlocked a door, been the password he was looking for. The blue iris's magnified. In fact, James had never seen a brighter shade. It was his new favorite color; Greg's Eyes Blue.

"You're gonna regret this." He said, but was leaning in closer as he did, breath hot on his parted lips.

"No," James filled the space again and brushed his lips against the soft pink of Greg's. "I won't."

There was a pause, a breath, a lifetime worth of considerations, and when they kissed again, it was Greg who started it. By doing so, he threw fuel on the fire, pumped up the intensity and effectively ruined them both.

They clumsily tore at clothing, hands spreading and exploring, breaths hitching and moans escalating as they escaped into the bedroom and shut the door firmly behind them.

Coffee brewed to completion in the kitchen, completely forgotten.

-------

**Life Lesson Number Three:**

_The day after the night before is almost as unrelentingly cruel as the night after the day after. One is filled to the brink with uncertainty, deep contemplations and downright fear; yet the in the latter we find something else, something new. Something deeply tentative and fragile. _

_It is in that something that we are truly tested. _

-------

James Wilson knew The Morning After intimately, yet had never before experienced it on this end. Normally he was the one who disappeared before the sun came up, gone like a shadow into the night with only the bruises and love bites of sex as a reminder that he had been there at all.

Karma, he figured, could spiritually explain away why he'd woken alone in bed this morning; and while that was interesting on some level to dissect, he was much more contemplative about the logic in this particular case.

Waking up in Greg's bed, naked, with sweaty sheets tangled around the lower half of his body - it hadn't taken him long to recall what had happened the night before. In fact, other than the specifics of words spoken, he remembered everything in vivid detail. Impressive, actually, considering how wasted he'd been. How wasted they had been.

It hadn't taken him long to realize he was alone, either. His heart clenched when it became obvious that Greg wasn't in the apartment at all, and he'd felt sad. He wished he could phrase it more poetically, give it more meaning, but boiled down to its absolute truth, that was it.

It was seven-eighteen in the morning, and Greg House had already left for work.

He was alone with the aftermath.

-------

The day passed uneventfully, as far as normal standards went. He saw patients, did paperwork, saw more patients and repeated the process. He didn't see House once. Now, on a normal day, that might not have been so odd; but today was anything save a normal day.

He walked by the Diagnostic office half a dozen times, and each and every time, it was completely empty. By the end of the day, Wilson had logically concluded that not only was House avoiding him, but he was also blackmailing all his underlings into doing the same.

_The day after drunken sex with your best friend_, Wilson thought sourly, hanging his head quite like a wounded puppy. _So much worse than the morning after_.

When six o'clock rolled around, it was past time for Wilson to leave his office, but the empty desperation he'd indulged himself in all day wasn't letting him leave. He wasn't sure he had anywhere to go.

Which was why he was almost relieved when he looked up at the sound of his office door opening and saw House standing there. Leaning heavily against his cane, his face looked drawn and shadowed. He was wearing is pants from the night before - the stain was there just as he'd predicted it would be.

"Hey," he greeted, voice coming out more nervous than he would have like. About as nervous as he felt, but more than he'd wanted to admit.

House nodded in his direction, but didn't speak. Wilson wanted to be angry with him, wanted to pretend none of it ever happened, wanted to breech the subject. All his wants and needs were contradicted and he couldn't decide which to act upon.

Yet he realized, sitting behind his desk with his best friend silhouetted in the shadows of his doorway, wanted he wanted most of all, was for House to take the lead. Take charge of this situation as he did all others. It was what he did best, after all, and James realized now that he'd come to depend on that.

"You ready?" House asked, sounding casual and tired simultaneously.

"Ready?" He echoed, feeling stupid. Going through the motions all day with this giant _What if? _hanging over his head had been draining.

"To go." House clarified, with not so much as a touch of mocking or sarcasm his tone. "I'm beat. I wanna get outta here."

Okay, James thought, avoiding the issue altogether, he could work with that. "Sure," he answered. "Give me a second."

He took that second to put away the case file he'd been scribbling in and pick up his jacket off the coat rack on the other side of the room. He hadn't had much time to sort out any thoughts he might have been having about his best friend's behavior.

Though that was probably for the best, because if he'd been wrapped up in thoughts, he might have missed Greg's scarcely audible whisper when he approached his side.

"You regret it?" It was tinged with insecurity, but James caught it.

Brown eyes met blue, and for the briefest of moments, the younger man felt a flash of fear. This could be how everything ended.

"No."

Or it could be how it all began.

Greg shifted forward in one clumsy motion and had the Oncologist pressed against the closed door, pushing the majority of his weight on him, using him to steady himself as the cane was propped up a few feet away.

"I'm gonna do something now." Greg echoed his words from the night before, and despite the seriousness of the moment, James was smiling. Greg leaned in and kissed that smile.

James shifted his arm so he could wrap it around his lover's - for that's what they were now - waist, sliding it up until he could hook it over the back of his shoulder. This kiss was intense, filled with repressed emotions and battling tongues.

Greg eventually pulled away, gasping. His eyes were hazy but his voice was clear. "You can't change me."

"What?" James too, was breathing rapidly, mind foggy with confusion and want.

"I'm not giving up Vicodin, I'm not gonna stop drinking, I'm not going to turn into a nicer, more people-friendly person. If you expect me to..."

"I don't." James said sincerely, not sure whether to be offended or amused by the abrupt need for open communication. He decided to crack a joke, because at the moment, that seemed appropriate, "I like how you're attaching a disclaimer."

"Yeah, well," Greg shrugged, but leaned forward so his forehead was touching the slightly shorter man's. "I don't... I..."

"Yeah," James cut off, smiling widely. "I know."

"Good." Greg smiled, then chuckled, seriousness of the moment depleting in an instant.

"What?"

"So much easier than a woman."

"Shut up." James grumbled, heart soaring at how simple this was. How quickly they'd adapted to this change. Like it had always been this way, and they'd just been doing their best to ignore it.

"That's a compliment." Greg laughed.

"I'm sure." He snarked lightly.

They'd finally stopped ignoring it. They would go home tonight, live their lives and gradually fall even more in-tune with this change.

_Who was it that said change always had to be a tragic thing?_

Greg kept his arm attached to James' shoulder as they ambled out of the hospital, content for now with the way things were. "I think I could get used to this."

_Because they were wrong_

Fin.


End file.
